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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885329">Property Law in the Northern Kingdoms</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadofnothing/pseuds/myriadofnothing'>myriadofnothing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Slavery, Episode: S01E02 Four Marks (The Witcher), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slave Jaskier | Dandelion, Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:07:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885329</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadofnothing/pseuds/myriadofnothing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt reluctantly saves a slave.  A brief one-shot.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Property Law in the Northern Kingdoms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>No. 5—Failed escape</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Come on, you don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting.  You must have some review for me.  Three words or less,” the minstrel said, taking the liberty of sitting down at Geralt’s table in the corner.</p><p>He was dressed in a nice brocade doublet that was dusty from the road.  It was buttoned high at the neck and snug at the cuffs, and a similarly fine yet soiled silk tunic ruffled out from under the hems.  The scent of jasmine and orange blossom clung to him, a court perfume last applied weeks ago but lingering in the unwashed fabric, likely only detectable to a witcher’s senses.  He was handsome in a pretty way, his cheeks pinked from singing by the fire.  Though his eagerness for approval from a stranger in a tavern made him seem boyish, now that he was close Geralt could see the filled in features of man maybe thirty.</p><p>“They don’t exist.”</p><p>“What don’t exist?”</p><p>“The creatures in your song.”</p><p>“And how would you know?  Oh—oh, what fun.  White hair, big old loner, two very, very scary-looking swords.  I know who you are.”</p><p>  Geralt also noted, now that he was close, that when he talked with his hands and rolled his shoulders, stark tan lines on his neck and wrists just peaked out from under the ruffles of ivory silk.</p><p>Adding up all the pieces, Geralt interrupted, “I know what you are.”</p><p>The minstrel stuttered for a moment.  “You’re—ah, hm, what?”</p><p>“You should keep a lower profile,” Geralt said dryly.  “There’s a party of patrollers in town now.  I passed them on my way in.”</p><p>The minstrel’s eyes widened and he tugged at his sleeves’ cuffs.  “Well, ah, good.  Someone has to keep the law and order.”  He was a terrible liar.  </p><p>Geralt tried to stay out of the affairs of people—unless they needed a monster killed, of course.  Anytime he got involved where witchers shouldn’t, he ended up with some awful moral dilemma that had no right answer.  Interceding in the escape attempt of a slave was not part of the Path, and would only bring him trouble.  He didn’t want trouble.  He wanted to finish his stout and see if there was enough work in this town to buy him a nice, long stay at a brothel.</p><p>If the man wanted to parade around his clearly court-trained talents while pretending to be a lowly traveling minstrel, in expensive court clothes, smelling of court perfume, with exactly the kind of pretty face a pervy nobleman would want in court slave who purpose was entertainment, while still sporting tan lines from his removed slave collar and wrist cuffs—then that was his own decision.  And it had nothing to do with Geralt at all.</p><p>“Play dumb if you want.  But leave me to drink alone.”</p><p>The minstrel moved his mouth like a fish, then said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  He slunk away; Geralt didn’t watch him go.  </p><p>While he worked on his stout for the next half hour, there was no more singing, and when he looked around to flag down the innkeeper’s wife for more, the minstrel wasn’t anywhere to be seen.</p><p>It wasn’t the last they crossed paths.</p><p>That evening, after stabling Roach and finding a blacksmith to repair his armaments, Geralt was at the same table having mutton stew and more stout when two men clomped in.  The buzz of the dinner crowd ebbed; chairs scraped and creaked as people turned to stare.  Geralt did not look up.  The affairs of the townsfolk here had nothing to do with him.  (Unless they had monsters needing killing, of course.)</p><p>“That’s him, over there, the one sitting brooding in the corner, the witcher,” said a familiar voice, the lilt of literacy standing out from the locals' rustic accents.</p><p>Geralt was deeply disappointed to hear his own description and then the clomping footsteps approaching his table.</p><p>“Oi, witcher, is this yours?”</p><p>Geralt finished chewing and reluctantly looked up.  Two slave patrollers held the minstrel between them.</p><p>“Master, I’m sorry I took so long, I couldn’t remember what verbena looked like and then it was getting dark and I tripped down an awful hill and crushed what white myrtle I had, and I was all turned around—please don’t be cross with me, Master,” he said all together without even winding himself.</p><p>“He’s not—” Geralt started.</p><p>The minstrel pulled out of the patrollers’ grips and threw himself to his knees by the table at Geralt’s feet.</p><p>“I know I’m not supposed to go so far, Master.  These officers even thought I was running away, I went so far.  But they helped me back and I’m so relieved to be back safe with you,” he said, enunciating that last part, “And at your service.  Master.”  His eyes were beseechingly wide and wild.  They were a clear shade of blue, like ice on a wintry lake.</p><p>If he told the patrollers that he didn’t own any slaves and this one certainly didn’t belong to him, they would find his real owner.  The minstrel would be punished, probably severely, maybe even fatally.  And Geralt would finish his dinner, sleep in a bed, soundly, without any moral qualms eating him up, and be on his way on the Path in the morning.</p><p>“Fuck,” he growled to himself, knowing what he was about to do and that it would likely bite him in the ass later.</p><p>“So this‘un is yours?”</p><p>“Yes, he’s mine,” Geralt said through his teeth.</p><p>“Well here he is, all returned to ya,” one patroller said.</p><p>“Yep, your property returned to you safe and sound,” said the other.  They waited expectantly.</p><p>Geralt realized they wanted a finder’s fee.  The minstrel, facing Geralt in the corner and hidden from everyone else, gave him a pained, sheepish grimace.  Geralt scowled at him and dug a handful of ducats from his purse.</p><p>“There’s also a fee fer violating town ordinance.  Slaves have to be in collars and cuffs in Posada town limits.”</p><p>“Fee’s fifteen ducat,” the other said helpfully.</p><p>“Right,” Geralt growled.  </p><p>The minstrel cringed.  He watched Geralt’s hand go back inside his purse with sheer relief.  <em>Thank you</em>, he mouthed silently.</p><p>“I’ll get him to the smithy at dawn,” Geralt said, stepping over the minstrel to pay the patrollers.</p><p>They left.  Geralt resumed his seat.  The buzz of the crowd regained its previous level as patrons went back to their business.  The minstrel stayed kneeling at his feet.</p><p>“Thank you, thank you, you have no idea what you’ve done for me.”</p><p>“Possession of a stolen slave is a criminal offense in Dol Blathanna,” Geralt informed him.</p><p>“I will pay you back,” the minstrel said firmly.  “For the money and for the trouble.”  He leaned forward and put a hand on Geralt’s knee.  “I can start paying you back tonight,” he said coyly.  He bit his lower lip and fluttered his eyelashes.  His thumb rubbed a circle.</p><p>“I ride out in the morning.  I’ll take you as far as the Dyfne.  From there, it’s three days walk north to the border.  You can repay me by never crossing my path again.  Stop it,” he said and removed the minstrel’s hand.  "Get up, would you?"</p><p>The minstrel slid into the seat opposite him, looking smaller and more timid than he had when doing the same action earlier in the afternoon.  "I was right, wasn't I?  You're the witcher, Geralt of Rivia."</p><p>Geralt grunted.</p><p>"Well, I'm Jaskier, by the way."</p><p>Just then, a local cautiously approached the table.  “Is it true?  You’re a witcher?”</p><p>Geralt took a long-suffering breath.  It seemed like he wasn’t going to finish his dinner while it was still warm.</p><p>“I got a job for ya... a devil—he’s been stealing all our grain.  In advance, I’ll pay ya.  A hundred ducet.”</p><p>Geralt considered it.  “One fifty.”</p><p>The local nodded solemnly and drew a purse from under his coat.  “I have no doubt you’ll come through.”</p><p>He would have to investigate this job first; riding north would have to wait, as would ridding himself of the minstrel.  But afterward, he would.  He’d do it and sleep soundly at night.</p><p>
  
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